Oneshot: Captain John
by thegoodpill
Summary: John knows how much Sherlock likes it when he's ordering around. He's going to use it against him. For his own pleasure.


**Captain John**

John knew that he wasn't the smartest of people, but when it came to Sherlock he was pretty sure he'd get an A+ on every test about the man. Still, despite his knowledge about the man there were still plenty of shadows, undiscovered secrets that would only be revealed once Sherlock wanted them to be.

Except for one.

Sherlock opposed authority like John opposed his danger nights, yet there were moments John would beg to differ. Over time it had become clear to John that he could make Sherlock do things he normally wouldn't be able to,_ if _he ordered him. Especially when he used his Captain voice. (Yes, John had a Captain voice. There was nothing wrong with that. If Sherlock could have a Shut Up And Admire My Brilliant Deductions voice then John could have a Captain voice.)

The best thing was that whatever John demanded Sherlock to do, Sherlock would do it with the hint of a smile on his face. And it was that smile, that tiny, nearly invisible smile John hadn't noticed so many times before, that made the army doctor realize he had power over Sherlock. _Control_. And he would be an idiot not to use it, wouldn't he?

(John also had to admit he rather liked having Sherlock obey him, though not without the usual complaint — sometimes a huff, sometimes a complaint mumbled under his breath. The fact that it was all just show was quite amusing, really, but other than that John really did enjoy bossing Sherlock around. It was, as Sherlock would say, interesting. Maybe even fascinating.

Maybe even arousing.)

John cleared his throat and folded the newspaper, letting it rest in his lap as it would have no use to him any longer. He'd put it on the small table near him but it was filled with Sherlock's things, and John knew from experience that trying to move them only got Sherlock on his back, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He wouldn't mind if Sherlock was on his back in another way, though. He wouldn't mind that whatsoever.

John let out a long breath, closing his eyes momentarily. He wasn't really supposed to think of his flatmate like that. It was hard to resist, however, because who _wouldn't_ want Sherlock on his back, all innocent and co-operating? God, even Sally would get off on it.

"Could you please stop thinking of Donovan sexually, or, for that matter, in any way?"

John snapped his head up to Sherlock, who was reading some magazine on the couch not too far from him. While Sherlock's observation wasn't (entirely) true, John couldn't help the flaming of his cheeks and he cleared his throat again to get rid of it somehow. It didn't work.

"I wasn't— I'm not—" He cocked his head to the side, pressing his eyes closed to get the upcoming images of Sally out of his mind. "I wasn't thinking about her like that _at all_."

"Whatever you say."

Sherlock sounded thoroughly unconvinced. He always did when someone tried to tell him he was wrong; he was Sherlock Holmes after all, consulting detective, the only one in the world, the crime fighter, the man of justice, the man who was never, _ever_ mistaken.

Well, except that time with the sugar. John smiled at the memory. Oh how wonderful that day had been.

"And stop thinking about my failure," Sherlock added, not unsurprisingly though it did startle John.

John felt the need to take Sherlock off guard as well, the way Sherlock always did with him. He wanted to mess Sherlock up, make him fall apart subtly until he wouldn't be the mighty detective he'd become. And John knew just how to take care of that.

"If the failure you say I was thinking about was you being unable to make me a good cup of tea, then you were right."

Interest piqued, Sherlock slowly raised his head and settled his eyes on John. They were narrowed slightly, which told John he was either confused or trying to predict what John's next line would be.

"I don't follow."

Confusion it was, then. Step one to stripping Sherlock from consulting detective to mess had been taken. John tried not to smile.

"Maybe you can try and figure it out while making me some tea."

Sherlock snorted at that, turning his attention back to the magazine. John was sure he couldn't be all too interested in it, considering it was a women's magazine. Mrs. Hudson had probably left it behind when she'd been… doing something in their apartment. (Why the hell would she leave a _magazine_? She couldn't possibly come upstairs to _read_.)

"Did I say something funny?"

John attempted to sound as detached as possible. With Sherlock as a flatmate and colleague it wasn't difficult to simply act out what had been performed before him often enough.

"Obviously," Sherlock said with an amused smile. He hadn't taken note of John's new way of speaking. Yet.

"Then I must've missed the punchline."

John waited until Sherlock looked at him again. It took longer than he'd expected to, but after half a minute of silence which indicated John was serious — or maybe simply because Sherlock was curious as to what John's behavior meant — Sherlock's eyes met John's again. They widened slightly, almost unnoticeably but noticeable to John, and the latter had to concentrate hard not to smirk.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock finally asked, incredulously. Incredulous Sherlock was better than confused Sherlock. Step two.

"Go make me some tea."

Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn to each other for a mere fraction. "_You_ always make tea."

"Well not anymore."

Oh how enjoyable this was. John nearly wished he'd turned on a camera to film every little thing Sherlock did, every tiny reaction only John would be able to see because he always saw, and only he saw it.

"Do I have an apology to make?"

For a moment John was lost, confused himself, but it passed quickly when he recalled Sherlock's way of apologizing to him was fixing him things. Though in the end it'd only been an experiment. Sherlock seemed to follow John's train of thought, though, thinking he only needed to make John something when he had to apologize for something.

John could come up with a few things Sherlock could apologize for, plenty of things, hundreds of things, but none of those mattered. Stripping Sherlock,_ that _mattered.

"No."

"Then I don't see why I—"

"I don't care what you do or don't see," John snapped, getting his Captain voice in shape. "I want you to make me tea. Now."

Sherlock opened his mouth only to close it soon afterwards, at a loss of words. Oh if Scotland Yard were only here to see this.

Though, on second thought, John was glad this was for his eyes only.

"I don't-"

"_Now_, Sherlock."

It finally seemed to dawn on Sherlock, John's speech finally seemed to register in that funny little brain of his, that Mind Palace he used every so often. It was wonderful to see the transformation from rigid to obedient, though the spark of stubbornness had yet to fade. John knew how to fix that.

"That's an order," he said, recalling the first time he'd said the exact same thing in Sherlock's presence. "Detective."

"I'm not a detective, I'm a_ consulting _detective."

Damn. John had forgotten he needed to be accurate if he wanted to remain a hold on Sherlock's vulnerability.

"And now you're a _disobedient_, consulting detective," John shot back, hoping to make up for his mistake. He raised his chin slightly to look more authoriative. "Don't make me punish you."

John was set on not imagining any kind of punishments, because he knew that if he did he'd give away how much of an effect this was all having on him as well, and then the moment would be broken and it would never return again. Sherlock would make sure.

"Like you would," Sherlock said after a moment of silence, that mere moment being enough proof for John that Sherlock was crumbling. Hesitance; step three.

"Are you really going to challenge me, Mr. Holmes?"

That was it. That, apparently, seemed to be enough for Sherlock to fall. To drop the fences and be defenseless, to allow himself to be controlled. John wasn't sure what had done it, the challenge in his voice or calling him Mr. Holmes. Maybe both. Probably the Mr. Holmes. No wait, knowing Sherlock it was always the opposite of what John thought — the challenge in his voice it was, then.

John didn't care. He just wanted Sherlock to get up and make the tea he didn't even feel like drinking, wanted Sherlock to tsk or grumble, make any kind of complaint about John or his miserable life, anything that would involve Sherlock obeying him. Like a puppy.

Sherlock didn't move. He didn't even blink. John wasn't even sure he was breathing.

At last, Sherlock inhaled deeply, dropping the magazine. "I can't," he said.

John frowned. "You _can't_?"

He didn't have a limp, hadn't taken any sort of drugs that would make him unable to stand up; he was healthy in every way (partly thanks to John), so why-

"I'm hard."

John's knit together eyebrows raised on his forehead, eyes widening. Had he heard that correctly?

"Come again?"

He was slipping into his usual, easy to boss around, self again, he knew that. He couldn't help it, though, and it didn't look like Sherlock seemed to mind — or notice.

"I can't make you tea because I'm hard," Sherlock stated clearly, sounding not in the least embarrassed about the confession. That was okay; John was blushing enough for the both of them by now.

Typical, wasn't it? It was so typical of him, John thought, to drive Sherlock to do or say something somewhat insane and losing all the confidence he'd had previously. Sometimes John thought if he just loved making himself uncomfortable, and when it occured to him that Sherlock's statement had made him equally hard he figured he was a masochist.

He couldn't back out now. He never did, not even when he desperately wanted to return to his good old flat with holes in the walls from Sherlock's shooting, so he wasn't going to now, either. Besides, he knew that he actually wanted it, in the end.

"Good," John managed after a while, having swallowed down the knot in his throat. "Then that makes two of us."

For all the times Sherlock locked up his emotions, from the slightest movement to the expressions on his face, he made up for all the times he'd lacked in decent reactions when his eyes widened greatly in shock. His eyebrows were lifted nearly comically wide, and John was sure he was never going to see that look on Sherlock's face again, ever.

The silence that stretched out between them gave John time to lock up every single detail about Sherlock's expression, taking note of every insignificant thing to store it into his memory. He didn't have the best of memory, but he was sure he'd never forget the look of utter shock on Sherlock's face. It was even better than the time Molly had tried to give him a cat as a present — for what occasion had been unclear.

At last, Sherlock cleared his throat. The awkwardness that started to settle in on his features was delightful. It was like Christmas, John's birthday and the time he lost his virginity all in one.

"I… I don't know what to do about this."

John felt himself harden a bit. "I do. Have you ever-"

"Yes."

John blinked. How… No, never mind. "No, Sherlock, have you ever-"

"Yes, I have," Sherlock replied, licking his lips. Oh God. "Do you want me to?"

John swallowed. Almost thought of relenting just like that, but that wouldn't do, would it? It would only have the most wanted result if he kept the game going.

"Ask me."

Sherlock frowned lightly. "I just did."

"Ask me for _permission_."

John wasn't just going to let Sherlock do what he wanted — even though he wanted nothing more — because then there wouldn't be any fun left. If John didn't keep up, didn't make Sherlock want enough then Sherlock wouldn't put all his effort into it and, knowing him, he could even stop when he was in the middle of it. And John was not going to be left hanging. Not tonight.

"Can I suck you?" Sherlock asked, voice low and eyes glistening. John pursed his lips. He could do better. Sherlock seemed to agree. "_May_ I suck you? Sir?"

As much as John liked to be called Doctor, there was nothing better than the good old sir. He threw the newspaper from his lap onto the floor — Mrs. Hudson would probably pick it up the next day — and spread his legs subtly, though obviously enough for Sherlock to notice. Not that he wouldn't notice, he always did.

Sherlock licked his lips again before he got up, revealing his own hard-on that attracted John's attention right away, eyes moving down to it immediately. His eyes moved up to Sherlock's face soon enough so he could watch every expression, every hint of excitement he could get a hold on. Sherlock's eyes always lit up beautifully when he was excited, they were always wide and eager to look and save everything he could.

By the time Sherlock had settled down between his knees, John's straining pants were nearly killing him. Sherlock placed a hand on each knee, sliding both up to John's thighs, burning through the fabric.

"Do not disappoint me," John warned in his best Captain voice, and when Sherlock's eyes brightened even more at the threat John knew there was no way he wouldn't be thoroughly satisfied.

He'd always known joining the army had been a good choice.


End file.
